


Comme Un Fils

by Be_Right_Back



Series: Birthday ficlets [5]
Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Picard
Genre: (he tries guys), Angst, Dadmiral Picard, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt, Hurt Cristóbal Rios, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Cristóbal Rios, Protective Jean-Luc Picard, Protective Raffi Musiker, Whump, self-sacrificing idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:46:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23435641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Be_Right_Back/pseuds/Be_Right_Back
Summary: Prompt from Aini_Nufire:Ok, how about Cris saves Picard from some danger (jumps in front of him/pushes him out of the way) and gets hurt himself and we get some feels from Dadmiral Picard?
Relationships: Jean-Luc Picard & Cristóbal Rios
Series: Birthday ficlets [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685512
Comments: 14
Kudos: 56





	Comme Un Fils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aini_NuFire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aini_NuFire/gifts).



> SO.  
> This prompt inspired me so much that it grew into something… a bit too long. And here I thought that writing ficlets would free me from my constant need to provide context :P anyway, it’s whumpy, it’s angsty and it’s fluffy ^^ hope you like it Aini <3
> 
> EDIT: this author note was written before I'd finished filling the other prompts. I hadn’t yet realized that they were _all_ going to turn out way longer than anticipated lol.

After what the brass had dubbed the “Coppelius stunt,” Jean-Luc Picard owed Starfleet so many favors that he was hardly in a position to refuse Clancy whenever she requested that he and his unorthodox crew go deal with the odd diplomatic mess. Many non-Federation worlds reacted better to him personally than to Starfleet envoys, it seemed, and it was often very useful. Right now, staring at half a dozen arrowheads all pointed at him and Rios, Picard sincerely wished he’d told the Commander in Chief to get lost.

(The bows were originally ceremonial, but the reinforced tritanium arrows looked operative enough. Picard could _feel_ Rios’ glare from where the Captain was standing.)

“I fail to see what you are trying to accomplish here,” Picard tried to reason. “Harming us will not make the Federation listen to whatever demands you might have.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m aware,” the demi-King said with a genuine laugh, his accented Standard quite informal for the leader of a third of the Keetureh planetary system. “And that’s partly the point. To be honest, this really hasn’t much to do with the Federation.” He waved one of his four nigh-translucent hands around, gesturing to his people surrounding them. “You have just no idea of what killing you guys would do for my approval rating.”

Picard’s eyebrows climbed to vertiginous heights. He stared, quite dumbfounded, and a quick glance in Rios’ direction was enough to determine that the younger man was just as confused.

“This is about getting re-elected?” Cris attempted to clarify. Picard could tell that he was offended by the notion.

The demi-King nodded in confirmation, a vaguely contrite smile on his lips.

“Sorry,” he apologized with a half-shrug. “I would bet that you’re both used to being threatened for more personal reasons. The truth is, most of my people are backwater idiots who are dying to see me ‘take action’ against big evil Starfleet and all of you offworlders. I wouldn’t risk killing an _actual_ ambassador, but I figure they won’t know the difference.”

Picard’s perfectly regulated synthetic heart managed to skip a beat as hope ignited within his chest. He stepped forward, ignoring the wary soldiers’ growls of warning, and held up his hands to get the demi-King’s attention.

“Then let my friend go,” he offered before the man could order his troops to shoot him, or knock him out. “His name will mean nothing to them, and my death alone should suffice to impress your electorate.”

It was a rather bold – _reckless –_ move, but the opportunity was too favorable to pass up, and Picard had spoken before considering much beyond the obvious need to secure Rios’ safety. He was taken completely by surprise when the strong negative reaction that he was preparing for didn’t come from the Keeturehan, but from Rios himself.

“Fuck that,” Rios snarled, and before anybody had time to react he dived for his comm badge, which the demi-King had carelessly left lying on the table. “Raf, beam us out,” he barked in the device as he snatched it up.

The demi-King shouted something in his own language and the gears of the mechanical bows turned, leaving a mere half-second delay between the _twang_ of the strings being released and the _woosh_ of air rushing past Picard’s ears as he was tackled to the ground. Rios’ muffled grunt was lost in the transporter beam.

When they materialized on the transporter pad at the back of the ship, Rios was the first to get to his feet, getting up before Picard could fully register that the younger man had been shielding him with his body. The crew’s surprised exclamations were what got him too look up, dizzy as he was from the experience. He froze.

Rios was wobbling unsteadily, his right hand stretched out as he tried to find the bulkhead for support, his left hand pressing against his lower abdomen and the Keetureh arrow protruding from it.

“What the—” Seven swore as she rushed to steady him.

Raffi crashed to the ground next to Picard, her hands hovering nervously as she tried to ascertain whether or not he was injured as well. He batted her hands away impatiently, getting to his feet with Elnor’s help just as Rios’ refused Seven’s offered support.

“I’m fine,” the man growled, before – to their collective horror – gripping the end of the arrow’s thin shaft and breaking it off. He tossed it to the ground right as the EMH flickered on.

“Captain!” the holo exclaimed as he came online, “Sir, are you alright?”

“I think tritanium messes with your scanners,” Rios deadpanned, pushing the hologram out of his way as he stumbled toward the stairs.

The medbay was down there, but so were his quarters. Agnes seemed to realize this as she jumped in front of him and tried to block his way.

“Cris, wh— what are you doing?” She stammered, voicing their shared incredulity. “You need to sit down!”

Rios’ expression softened minutely, but he brushed past her all the same. It was all Picard could take before the irritation that had been steadily swelling up his chest exploded into anger.

“Rios,” he snapped, “what exactly do you think you’re doing?”

That got the Captain’s attention, and his dark eyes dropped to Picard’s. They were stormy and unreadable, and Picard was not in the mood to indulge Rios’ aggravating tendency to brood.

“What?” Rios asked through gritted teeth. As he was wavering on his feet, the blood stain on his shirt growing larger, Picard assumed that the strained voice was because of the pain.

“Rios, you _will_ sit down and you _will_ let the EMH examine you before we move you to sickbay,” Picard instructed, gesturing at the half-arrow still sticking out. “And for goodness’ sake, do it before you collapse. You have been foolish enough for today.”

That had apparently been the wrong thing to say, but Picard didn’t realize it until Rios slumped against the wall and glared at him with all his might. The others hovered awkwardly in the background, aware that their help would not be welcomed.

“Foolish?” Rios repeated hoarsely.

Later, Picard would look back on that moment and rightly beat himself over his appalling lack of sensitivity and common sense. At the time, he pressed on, somehow convinced that a stern commanding voice and clear orders were what a stubborn ex Starfleet Commander needed to start acting rationally.

“Taking such a risk on my behalf was reckless and ill-conceived. Now sit down so you don’t add your death to my conscience,” Picard said firmly.

And just like that Raffi flinched badly, and Seven let out a low _“damn.”_ Before Picard had time to consider why, Rios’ face went from stony to downright furious, absolute _rage_ etched on each line of that face they only knew as cool and collected.

“Yeah, because it was all about you,” he spat. The hand clasped over his wounded side was trembling badly, Rios’ legs shaking, sweat trickling down his neck as he conjured the last dregs of his strength in an a desperate effort not to collapse. (Even propped against a bulkhead and his blood puddling on the ground, he still managed to stand taller than Picard.) “It’s always all about you old Starfleet _cabrónes_ and your grand heroic moves and your fucking egos and your Messiah complexes. _Aweonao_. _”_

But after that he deflated, and he looked impossibly tired. When he staggered from the wall and made his way to the stairs with the EMH following worriedly, nobody stopped him.

“He is very sad,” Elnor stated when Rios had disappeared from their field of view. And then he turned to Picard and frowned at him. “And I think it is your fault.”

“What happened down there?” Soji asked, the only one who had not once voiced her opinion or tried to intervene in any way since Picard and Rios had beamed up.

“Seems clear enough to me,” Raffi muttered, shooting a glare at Picard. She suddenly clapped her hands, startling them. “Okay, here’s tonight’s rule, and you’d all better respect it. No following Cris, no talking to Cris, no trying to get Cris to open up. I’ll make sure he’s alright.”

Elnor, Soji and Agnes all looked like they were ready to protest, and Picard felt like it too, as he considered that he deserved some form of explanation for Rios’ outburst, but Raffi shut them up before any of them had time to voice their complaints.

“Guys, no offense to you, but I know him. He won’t want to see any of you,” she said in a tone that brooked no argument. “I know you’re worried, but that’s really not the important thing here.”

And with that, she strode after their Captain and disappeared in the belly of la Sirena, leaving Picard to ponder what he had done so wrong and how he could best apologize once he understood. Seven noticed his troubled look, and she walked to him and snatched his arm, leading him to the bridge before he could protest.

“One of you activate that stupid Hospitality Hologram to clean up all that blood,” she threw over her shoulder to their three younger shipmates. “And you,” she told Picard with a hard look, “you and I need to talk.”

* * *

When Picard sneaked past Raffi’s quarters late that night and made his way to Rios’ room, he was fully prepared to get thrown out and have to face the wrath of the whole crew. She’d told them all that she and Cris had talked a bit, drunk a bit more, that he was as good as could be expected, and that he was still off-limits. Picard imagined that Rios had locked himself into his quarters, away from prying eyes and careless words. It thus came as a surprise when the door slid open at his simple request, welcoming him into the very heart of that ship he now called home but had yet to fully know.

Rios was facing away from him, sitting in one of two armchairs with a book in his hands and a new shirt on. He didn’t look up at the whoosh of the door panel, probably out of indifference. Picard rapped his knuckles against the door frame, awkwardly clearing his throat when it was clear that Rios didn’t intend to react in any way.

“May I come in?” He asked softly, because he had done his day’s share of overstepping.

Rios finally deigned looking up and eyed him warily. Then he closed his book and gave a nod – a sharp jerk of the head, really, motioning for Picard to enter. Picard slowly came closer, moving to stand right in front of his host. He didn’t dare examine the room for too long, lest he appear rude, but he still noticed the spotless surfaces, the tidiness, the appearance of perfect life-discipline that might just be a cover for a near-pathological need to clean up and keep things ordered.

As his eyes landed on Rios again, Picard couldn’t help but notice the slight bulge under the shirt, the red tinge of that slightly wet patch on the fabric, just under the ribs. Still no dermal regenerator, apparently.

“Are you alright?” Picard inquired carefully, because he hated to think that Rios considered mere _bandages_ an adequate substitute to tissue regeneration.

The man probably had no interest in painkillers either.

Rios raised an eyebrow at the question, a bit weary, a bit sardonic, just enough _Rios_ that it helped put Picard’s mind at ease.

“What do you want?” Cris asked flatly.

Was Picard like that to most people? A riddle wrapped in an enigma, keeping all emotions to himself and leaving his friends and acquaintances to fruitlessly try to guess what it was that he was thinking or feeling?

Taking in a deep breath, Picard gave Rios a sheepish smile.

“May I?” He inquired again, pointing at the second armchair.

Something shifted in Rios’ stony demeanor, like another defensive wall going up, but he didn’t say no, and so Picard sat. Rios stared at him for a few moments before smiling wryly, a sight that Picard had dearly been hoping to see.

“If we keep answering questions with more questions, we’re never going to get any talking done,” Rios commented with that smirk of his. He poured himself a glass of alcohol and downed it in one gulp, absently holding his left side. “Go ahead.”

Picard cleared his throat again.

“It has come to my attention— Well, Seven and Raffi ensured that it came to my attention— that I have behaved quite tactlessly upon our return from Keetureh.” Rios snorted but didn’t interrupt him, which encouraged him to continue. “You said something, about it being all about me… I don’t think I understand.”

“I don’t think I care,” Rios said back, pouring himself another drink. “You’re kinda making it all about yourself right now.”

Picard sighed.

“Rios, I can hardly apologize for something I don’t know I have done.”

Rios got up without drinking his second glass of brandy and walked to the opposite wall, leaning against it with his forearm and staring at the soft lights above his bed wordlessly.

“This is about Captain Vandermeer, isn’t it?” Picard pressed gently.

He had forgotten earlier that this Captain before him wasn’t the fearless lone spaceman that he often pretended to be.

Rios’ vulnerability had been on display the day after Nepenthe, when he’d brought Soji onboard. That day too, Picard had somehow managed to make a mess of things by failing to see the depth of Rios’ anguish. But that day they’d also talked, the young Captain had opened up, and Picard had caught glimpses of a bright and optimistic Starfleet XO eager for the approval and respect of his superiors.

He now remembered how Rios had once called him “old man” when that nickname apparently belonged to his late commanding officer, how he’d said “jefe” to him. So Picard waited, confident that this connection at least would get Rios to give up a snatch of information, or the merest hint of a confidence.

Rios stared at the lights for a long while before rubbing his eyes tiredly with two fingers. It lasted just too long to be a simple symptom of fatigue, and the hitching breath that followed was just too short to be from the physical pain. Rios breathed in through his nose, though it sounded almost like a sniffle, and giving up all pretense, he wiped his eyes.

“Damn,” he muttered. “Yeah, it’s about Captain Vandermeer. It’s always about Captain Vandermeer.” He gave Picard a weary look and let out a slow, pained chuckle. “It’s always about Captain Vandermeer because he couldn’t wait ten minutes before blowing his brains out. He just _had_ to do it there, right in front of me. It’s always about you because you’re the retired Admiral with a brain abnormality that flies away with my ship to commit suitably heroic suicide, and still has the gall to beam down at the last possible minute because your death wouldn’t dramatic enough if you kicked the bucket on my bridge.”

Picard blinked, taken aback. Rios wasn’t done.

“It’s always about him and you because you always have some red stain to wipe off your ledger, some nasty thing to clear off your conscience, some big screw-up you can’t live with and have to atone for. And nothing else in the world matters.”

Picard was beginning to get the picture.

“I supposed that you’re entitled to be angry at my self-sacrificing tendencies,” he gently acknowledged. “It would be hypocritical of me to deny you that after my own outburst.”

Rios’ eyes hardened.

“I’m _angry_ at you assuming that you have the right to make me live through anything like my Captain’s death and _your_ death a third time,” he corrected harshly. But then his voice faltered, and he looked away again. “I’m angry at you thinking that you have the right to choose between saving my life and adding to what you’ve already made me carry.”

 _I am terrible at this_ , Picard thought as memories of all his similarly awkward conversations with Elnor, Soji, Raffi or Agnes flashed before his eyes. Of their seven people crew, it really appeared like Seven of Nine was the only one who had no need for his paternal guidance. Trust the universe’s twisted sense of humor to make Jean-Luc Picard the fatherly figure to an entire ship full of badly damaged adults and youngsters. His Starfleet crews had been mostly emotionally balanced – or at least bound to stay professionally distant.

“I’m truly sorry,” he said softly, because words of comfort seemed pale and inadequate here.

Rios nodded slightly before wincing, the sheen of sweat again visible on his pain-creased brow. He crossed the distance to his bed and all but collapsed on the mattress. He didn’t lie down, sitting up as straight as his injured side would allow, but it was clear that he badly needed to rest.

“It’s okay,” he said tiredly. “I’m not— I’m not _that_ angry.”

And here it was, the vulnerability, the easy forgiveness of a young First Officer who held Captains and Admirals in too high regards, weighing his own faults as heavier than all of theirs, endlessly comparing himself to those he looked up to and founding himself lacking. Picard had seen it many times, had seen the same behavior in young ensigns and decorated officers alike.

“I was very worried about you,” Picard confessed, because it felt important.

Rios deserved to know that he cared, as clumsily as he did. To shoulder such a burden of pain and trauma without the assurance of reciprocated affection would have been intolerable. And it was the core of the problem, wasn’t it? Vandermeer and Picard had both ultimately failed to prove that they cared. They’d made it about them.

“No need,” Rios quipped, his speech now slightly slurred. “Wasn’t even the first time you’ve seen me with tritanium stuck somewhere.”

“I don’t much care for a repeat, frankly,” Picard gently admonished, although he was disappointed that Rios had addressed the physical aspect of the issue and neglected to acknowledge the underlying message. He studied Rios’ waxy complexion and he took in the tremors running through his shoulders. “Do you want me to leave?”

“Don’t really care,” Rios shrugged. He finally lowered himself onto his back and stared at the ceiling without a word, breathing in and out, and Picard hated to leave him like this.

“Thank you,” he finally said. “For getting us out of that mess. And for saving my life.”

“Hmm,” Rios eloquently answered. “You’re welcome.”

Just as Picard was getting up to go, the inexplicable urge to check on Cristóbal one last time forced his steps towards the bed and not the door. The Captain was already asleep, his skin clammy and the red patch on his shirt larger, his pained breaths escaping through slightly parted lips. Picard had never been one for physical displays of affection, but he couldn’t help the hand than strayed to Cristóbal’s forehead, brushing away some of the wayward curls.

“ _Pops_ ,” Cristóbal breathed out in reaction to the touch – whimpered, almost – causing Picard to withdraw his hand immediately, feeling oddly guilty.

The EMH decided to silently appear right then, the medkit materializing at his feet. His gaze met Picard’s and they exchanged a nod.

“Go,” the EMH – _Emil –_ murmured. “I’ll take care of it.”

Picard left, still a little troubled, still a little humbled. He’d have liked to stay longer, to make sure, perhaps, that Cris was alright.

But that had been today’s lesson, hadn’t it? It really wasn’t about him.

**Author's Note:**

> Aaaaaaaah. My babies. Hey, can you tell that I put way too much thought into my demi-King character? I love that jerk. I might make him into an actual OC one day. 
> 
> Title is from Corneille's song "Comme un fils" (Like a Son), which I really encourage you to check out. Here's a translation of the lyrics: https://lyricstranslate.com/en/comme-un-fils-son.html-0


End file.
